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EXCERPT
"Just like a man to show up after all the hard work is
done."
Not the warmest welcome Whit Thomas had ever received from a
woman, but then this woman had been sending him the big chill
for weeks. Her brown eyes, the color of rich caramel, sparked
with anger every time he had the nerve to ask her a question.
"I got tied up on another job."
"Whatever." She shrugged her slim shoulders.
A weaker man would have given up, written Hannah Bridges off
as frigid, and moved on. Not Whit. Not after that day last week
when he caught her peeking over her metal clipboard at his shoulders
with barely disguised hunger.
"Good afternoon, Hannah. I'm fine. Thanks for asking."
"Glad to hear it. So, did you want something or did you
just stop by to say hello?" She asked the question without
lifting her head.
"I need your help." He figured an hour or two between
the sheets should do it.
"Lucky me."
Whit had enjoyed his share of women over the years. Success
on that front had never been a problem. Until Hannah. She had
a voice as smooth as aged whiskey. And the stinging tongue of
a viper.
"Hannah-"
"Look, Thomas, it's been a long day. I'm sure I can pencil
in some time for us to argue tomorrow, but not now."
"I never argue. Suggest and help. Cajole, even. Never argue."
"I think you’re proving my point."
Her sunny blond hair and soulful brown eyes covered a growl
fierce enough to send jaded and scruffy men twice her age scrambling
for the nearest exit. The sexy sweetie was all of five-five but
wielded a power over burly men who could throw her spinning into
the air with one little finger if they were so inclined.
On the job site, she hid her petite frame under some of the
ugliest oversized flannel shirts he had ever seen. Today's version
was a hideous shade of yellow-brown. Every now and then one of
the overly large sleeves slipped down her slim shoulder, revealing
a tiny white tank top that hugged her sleek midsection and framed
her high round breasts.
He lived for those sightings.
The stubborn woman was so damn hot his insides flamed into a
raging inferno every time she swept by him with her perfect button
nose pointed in the air. A light fruity scent hovered around
her, wrapping around his balls and squeezing tight.
For the first and only time in his life a hardhat turned him
on. Watching her move, toting that battered metal clipboard around
like a shield, sent blood rushing to his groin and his brain
cells packing for vacation. Of course, the object of his lust
liked to pretend he didn't exist.
He planned to change all that today.
He pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the dismantled
kitchen of the historically protected house, careful not to trip
over an unopened box or one of the pieces of heavy equipment
scattered around the refurbishing project. "There's something
you need to see."
"Look, Thomas, if you want this job to come in on time,
you have to give me some space." She kept her intense gaze
centered on the thick wedge of papers clipped together in her
hands. She tapped her pencil against her front teeth then perched
it behind her ear.
"You can call me Whit. Everyone else does."
"I'll call you toaster oven, if you want. The problem's
still the same. I don’t have time for chitchat today."
Chitchat?
She continued. "Maybe one of your wealthy friends can keep
you entertained until I can finish these calculations."
"Ahh, there it is."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"The subtle 'you're a rich asshole' crap you always pull
on me."
She smiled. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Right. You just don’t like architects, I guess."
"Actually, I like most of the architects I work with."
Subtle as usual. Never mind that the National Trust handpicked
him to oversee this job. Never mind the fact she wasn't supposed
to lift a hammer without his approval.
Never mind the fact he owned the damn house she was ripping
apart and piecing back together again.
The little vixen had worked her way into his brain until all
he could think about was working his way into her tiny silk panties.
And it was time to do something about it.
"Since this is my property-"
"Your family's property."
He mentally grabbed for his last ounce of patience. "Last
time I checked, I was vice president of Thomas Properties, the
group that owns this house."
This time she actually snorted, an unattractive sound that only
stoked the heat running through his veins.
"As such," he continued over the offensive noise, "I'm
in charge. Not you."
That did it.
Those stunning high cheekbones of hers seemed to fall flat.
If he was bothering her before, he was clearly pissing her off
now. She emphasized her displeasure by dropping her clipboard
on the table and letting it land with a loud clank.
He finally had her attention. He wasn't so sure he wanted it
anymore.
"Please go on. I'm hanging on every word."
Definitely not good. "Hannah, we have a problem."
"You mean in addition to an ancient electrical system,
walls so thin they're peeling off like tissue paper, and a plumbing
mess bad enough to warrant consideration of a permanent port-a-potty
off the library, something more than that?"
"Yeah, in addition to all that."
"If that's the case, maybe this should wait until Monday.
I'm not sure I can take another setback."
"Sure you can." Whit suspected Hannah could handle
almost anything. He was ready to see if she could handle him. "This
problem is downstairs."
"Up until now the basement was the only floor of this three-story
disaster you call a house that didn't require a major overhaul."
"This isn't a construction problem."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
"Is the problem breathing? If so, just kill it. You don’t
need me for animal control duties. It's Friday. I've sent everyone
home and I'd like to get out of here myself."
"As the boss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist." |
